Behind the scenes on a disaster-training simulation

How does the crew of our most advanced destroyer train for any eventuality?
With fake explosions, play-acting volunteers, and lots of homemade viscera

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Volunteers from the Plymouth branch of this Casualties Union embrace the gore and help train the members of HMS Dragon's crew in search and rescue and sisaster managementl Many such exercises are carried out each year. Photo: Brijesh Patel for Seven Magazine

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The 'wounded' are taken aboard the Navy's latest hi-tech vessel.Photo: Brijesh Patel for Seven Magazine

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A search, rescue and disaster management exercise for HMS Dragon's crew in their final training before leaving to patrol the Suez Canal.Photo: Brijesh Patel for Seven Magazine

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A search, rescue and disaster management exercise for HMS Dragon's crew in their final training before leaving to patrol the Suez Canal.Photo: Brijesh Patel for Seven Magazine

As a member of the press, I am first on the scene. A plume of black smoke billows into the air. The helicopter, which broke up on impact, is in several parts. The tail has smashed through the windscreen of a passing car; inside the driver sits moaning. The pilot is slumped in the carcase of the chopper, shouting from behind his helmet that he can’t feel his legs.

Casualties are strewn everywhere, many with grisly injuries, some wandering in shock.

A woman with a hefty stick strides past me and yells to attract the attention of the rescuers. First to arrive is the ship’s chaplain, Rev James Francis. Known as “the Bish” by his fellow Royal Navy crew, he is in full uniform and leads a small team of medics. The woman engages him in panicked conversation, gesturing wildly towards the wounded with her stick.

“Oh, that’s Sue Wills at it again,” says a voice by my knee. I look down.

Josephine Street, a middle-aged woman with a shock of yellow hair, is sprawled in the grass with a gruesome gash across her shin. “Sue always plays the role of Mrs Foster, the doctor’s wife,” she explains. “Her husband is lost and she is panicking. She has the stick because she keeps a bull, but the first thing the Navy boys need to sort out is whether it presents a threat.” Sue’s task is to make the rescuers’ jobs difficult, and she takes it very seriously. Apparently, if they force her to give up the stick she “goes ballistic”. At length, the Bish manages to placate her, and leads his team in our direction. “I’m going to do some screaming now,” says Josephine. And she does.

These dozen or so blood-covered people are volunteers from a charity called the Casualties Union. Founded in 1942 to support the war effort, the organisation, which has around 450 members, provides casualties-on-demand for disaster-training simulations carried out by the military and emergency services. According to Caroline Thomas from Casualties Union HQ, it is a rewarding – if unusual — way to volunteer one’s time.

“We even have amputees,” she says. “One of them is in my branch in London. He has done exercises involving railtrack accidents, with a severed arm alongside. This creates not only a first-aid challenge, but an emotional hurdle for his rescuers to overcome.” Over the years, the volunteers create their own characters and back stories.

Sue Wills, for example, in role as Mrs Foster, will find out later in the day that her husband has been killed, and the trainee Naval medics will have to break the news. This is a routine she has carried out many times before. Once, the rescuers made the grave error of giving far more sympathy to the woman playing her husband’s mistress. That did not go down well.

We are at the Devonport Naval base in Plymouth, home of the Flag Officer Sea Training (FOST) programme. It forms a one-and-a-half-mile-long strip along the Devon coastline, and has been used by the Royal Navy for hundreds of years. Listed buildings and elegant squares sit uncomfortably beside modern newbuilds. A range of vessels is anchored in the docks; people in berets and anoraks walk purposefully along the quayside.

The sailors are arriving in increasing numbers at the crash site. A “recce” team in blue helmets finds a smoking building. They cluster outside and call for breathing apparatus. In the skeleton of the helicopter, two medics gingerly slip the pilot’s helmet off. He blinks in the light, and complains that his lower back is in agony.

“What’s your name?” says one of the medics. Matthew, he says. “OK, Matthew, we’re going to move you. It’s going to be painful but worth it.” The troops are from HMS Dragon, the Royal Navy’s brand-new Type 45 “Daring Class” destroyer. Given the widely publicised defence cuts, news of a freshly minted, 7,800-ton, £1 billion ship may come as a surprise. But HMS Dragon was originally part of a programme to produce 13 vessels; that order was slashed to six, of which three are already in service.

The Dragon’s main weapon is the Sea Viper Anti-Air Missile System, intended to defend against supersonic, stealthy targets from several directions at once. She has a helipad, a sick bay equipped to deal with major emergencies, and accommodation for 60 Royal Marines in addition to her company of 190. She has completed her sea trials and is now undergoing eight weeks of Basic Operational Sea Training (BOST), after which she will be ready for deployment; she will be sent down the Red Sea to Somalia and the Gulf, where she will keep the Suez Canal open in case of war, and combat Somali pirates.

In this age of limited resources and volatile geopolitics, flexibility is key. Today the crew are rehearsing rescue operations, but according to Lieutenant Commander John Patterson, who leads the FOST programme, just one day earlier they were undergoing battle simulations. “It was like a classic war film,” he says. “High-tempo fighting, multiple threats from the air, surface and subsurface simultaneously. We were hacking, maiming and killing Her Majesty’s enemies; 12 hours later, we need to shift to a compassionate, caring approach.” These compassionate operations can be varied. The crew themselves were only briefed on the scenario minutes before they had to scramble. They are able to handle earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, floods, tornadoes and tsunamis; they can produce drinking water, medical support and evacuate “entitled personnel” from unstable countries. The notion of switching from aggressive military operations to compassionate ones is highly realistic.

On the sidelines, assessing the progress of the sailors, are Royal Navy trainers, distinguished by their white trousers. One of them, Lieutenant George Blakeman, tells me that normally there is a baby in the burning house. A doll is put in one of the upstairs rooms, and one of the trainers squats beside it, making a noise like a crying infant. Today, however, the baby has not made an appearance.

The Dragon’s helicopter buzzes into view and lands, churning up grass and dust. The crew disembark; while some of them jog towards the scene of the crash, lugging their kit, two split off, climb a small hill and plant a flag — a cross of St George, with the Union Jack in one corner — in the ground. I trudge up the hill and stand beside the flag, trying to spot the Dragon. She is so well camouflaged that it takes me several seconds. Then I see her: an angular, grey vessel, shrouded in mist like a ghost ship.

Once they have been stabilised, the wounded are transferred onto a boat and taken out to the Dragon for treatment. I go with them; as we cut through the waves, I ask about the gore. “We invent our own recipes and make it ourselves,” says Joan Goodman, who together with her husband, Edward, has been volunteering for the Casualties Union for more than 30 years. “Blood is golden syrup and food colouring. Soft tissue is made of flour, water, oil, salt and cream of tartar, and blended in with make-up.” The effect is astonishingly realistic. The “soft tissue” is formed into convincing swellings, ridges and splits, and the “blood” has just the right consistency. “None of us have any formal acting training or experience,” says Joan. “You just pick up the tricks as you go along.”

Sue Wills is still clutching her stick. “My family think I’m mad doing this,” she says. “But I do it because I enjoy it. I saw an advert in the paper, and came to a meeting. They were talking about broken bones and blood. I thought, great – they’re all as mad as I am.” Boarding the ship is like climbing into the body of the Iron Man. It is vast — the Type 45 is the largest Royal Navy destroyer — but there is equipment everywhere. Perhaps because of this it feels simultaneously cramped and spacious, cluttered and sparse. Every last detail is purely functional. You’d have to be a true sailor to think of it as home.

As the wounded are being taken to the sick bay, the second and third parts of the exercise take place simultaneously. Over the intercom system, or “pipes”, a voice announces that due to a “serious aggressive attack”, a fire has broken out on Deck HJ1. Two young sailors are helped into fireproof suits and breathing apparatus. Also, it is time for the press conference.

Together with a motley collection of volunteers acting as simulated press, I am ushered into a conference room. The pipes are still blaring every minute or so, making it difficult to hear. The ship’s public relations officer, Lieutenant Commander Kevin Miller, tells us that ordinarily journalists would not be brought aboard when a fire has broken out. Then the captain, Commander Darren Houston, together with representatives of the local police and fire service, stride in and take their seats.

As the only real member of the press present, I am allowed a question early on. Deciding to test him a little, I ask whether, given the fact that the downed helicopter is a military one, the Royal Navy isn’t to blame.

“We have yet to establish the cause of the crash,” he replies, “and we will keep you updated with all further developments. Our priority is to secure the area and make sure that all the casualties receive the treatment they need. This is a tragic incident, and we are doing our best to save and protect lives.” Spot on.

The remainder of the press conference is so plagued by pipes that it is impossible to make any sense of it. I meet Commander Houston in his spartan — and highly functional — quarters afterwards. A diminutive, pixie-like man in his forties, he has served in the Gulf of Aden and Somali Basin conducting antipiracy and counter-terrorist operations. Aside from his uniform, his steely gaze is the only indication of his vocation. When asked about the cost of his ship, Commander Houston insists she’s worth every penny.

“As well as being ambassadors for UK PLC around the world, we are your insurance policy,” he says. “It’s all very well saying we don’t need to spend money on big bits of hardware, but when there’s a crisis you can’t just knock up a ship or three.” To drive home his point, he takes me up to the bridge. It brings to mind the Starship Enterprise, with its multiple screens and dials, and officers standing behind seats, surveying panoramic views. The captain’s chair is padded and scarlet. In a matter of weeks, the shoreline framed by this window will be African or Middle Eastern, and at this point the efforts of hundreds of people, from the crew to the trainers to the volunteer casualties with their intricate back stories, come sharply into focus.

Soon, the operations will not be simulated but real.

“The volunteer casualties are a humble lot, but they do some really important work,” says Commander Houston. “The better they are, the better prepared my ship will be for the challenges that lie ahead. And in this day and age, you have to be ready for anything.”